“I can’t go there I can’t.
You know we never had to be in the mud like everyone else.
We were the first ones.
He was 73.
Skin cancer. ”
She looks down into the sink, slouching over, as if invite the drain to take her with the water.
We sit down in the living room.
“He always came over after work, and we would drink coffee and talk politics.
He was so stubborn. But smart.
His kids have kids.
We watched them all grow.
They were all right here”
She points at the solid concrete wall covered in wallpaper.
She looks down at the floor, grinding the edge of her slipper into the rug.
“I talked to them today.
I told them I couldn’t go the cemetery.
I just can’t. He was my first neighbor here.”
She looks up and into my eyes and sighs.
“Soon, all of us first neighbors will be gone.“